We Must Have an Inner Radar

I was eighteen years old when I walked into a teenagers’ beachfront dance hall. It was a summer resort town for working class people back in the 1950s. I immediately saw, sitting alone at the end of a bench full of girls along the wall, the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. From that day to this, sixty years later, I have never seen a more beautiful face, and I include Miss America winners and movie stars. I swear it’s true.

Back in the city, I dated her a few times. We lived only about six blocks apart in the city, but she lived over the line where the really rich families lived and I lived on the side of the line where the more superficially rich families had homes. At the time, I didn’t know why I was not totally captivated by the beautiful, rich girl, but I didn’t care at all that several of my pals dated her after they met her through me.

Zoom ahead sixty years. She searches for me on facebook and finds me. In all those years, I never thought of her, except on two occasions when I saw her. On the first occasion, I was out for a walk, saw her and admired her, but had no idea that she was that same girl. I guess we were in our thirties at that time. She knew who I was, and approached me. It took several heavy hints from her before I remembered her from the past. On another occasion, I saw her in a driveway in front of a downtown mansion, loading things into a fancy car with an older lady helping. We must have been in our late forties at that time. She looked upset, so I didn’t acknowledge her.

I ask myself, why did this truly spectacular woman not attract me in any serious way? She had a stunning figure, and the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen. The pictures she’s sent me recently, when we’re in our seventies, show a still-stunning, gorgeous face. It set me to wondering why I’d passed her up. She has told me in recent communications that she was hopelessly in love with me. So it’s not as though she was out of reach for me. Rather, I was out of reach for her, but why?

Over the past year, we have communicated via email and facebook. We live hundreds of miles apart now. Although I travel to her city several times a year, I have no intention of ever meeting with her. The reason is, I hate her for who she has become. It’s difficult for me to believe that I had been, for a few weeks, close with someone who I now find so objectionable.

In that first conversation, the first thing she told me about herself was that she was wealthy. I found that objectionable because it’s just bad manners. I’m damn sure she didn’t earn her fortune. I suppose her wealthy father left her well fixed, and she had been married to an older, wealthy professional man who must have left her well fixed either by death or divorce agreement.

I told her I’d heard over the years that she’d become an artist. She was obviously very proud that she’d graduated Art College, but frankly, I don’t see that as a big deal. Then she sent photos of some of her art. I won’t bother to describe it, except to say it was unoriginal crap.

In various conversations she exhibited a strict disdain for literary pornography, which I consider very backward for a person in her seventies. She also is a strong supporter of a conservative government and I think they should all burn in Hell. She believes that the liberals are demented. It amazes me in view of the evidence that she could favour the wrong side… in my opinion.

She drives two German cars, one of which is a convertible. I think that’s stupid, both buying German (she’s Jewish) and one a ragtop. I think ragtops are stupid. She tells me she had a younger, black lover for nine years, during which she paid for everything while they lived in luxury and travelled the world. I’m sure he truly loved her deeply, sure, sure. He finally moved on and married a younger wealthy woman.

That’s why, now, I feel I must have had inner radar that warned me that this stunning woman was not for me. She has sent current pictures of herself, and I can tell you, she is still, at seventy-two, the most beautiful woman I have ever known. In the background of her photos I see other things about her that I find objectionable: in her bedroom a mirrored wall and another wall painted flat black. The bed and furnishings are obviously of the finest quality.

I surrendered my wealth for a simple, honest life. I dropped out of the hustle of my profession and found happiness in rural simplicity with a wonderful European wife with values and intelligence that keep me turned on. I would have found life with the princess intolerable. It’s like she hasn’t advanced her life at all, in six decades. She was a rich teenager and now she’s a rich old woman, having achieved nothing.


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